


Your heart has a lack of colour.

by exhaustedwerewolf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: I'm tired of looking at this tbh and I haven't posted in a thousand years so you're getting it now., If your soulmate dies everything goes back to black and white, Implied Murder, Multi, Multiple Soulmates, One Shot, Partly set during the Alive short, Soulmate AU, blood tw, the world is black and white until you meet your soulmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 13:17:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhaustedwerewolf/pseuds/exhaustedwerewolf
Summary: When her soulmate breathes his last and the colour drains from the world around her, Widowmaker doesn't feel anything at all. She is comfortable in the expectation that blue skies are firmly behind her, but when out on a hit, a tousle with an Overwatch agent changes everything.





	Your heart has a lack of colour.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Owl City's Rainbow Veins. Hope you enjoy!

The harsh light from the monitors in the dark is giving her a headache- or maybe it's the ceaseless clack-clack-clacking of the keyboard. It’s the old fashioned kind, not holographic. Widowmaker had appraised it with something like derision when she'd first seen it. It hadn't put Talon’s top hacker off one bit.

 

“So, what was it like?” Sombra drawls, fingers flying even as she glances up, eyes bright with a curiosity she makes no effort to disguise. Curiosity with claws, Widowmaker observes. The kind of curiosity that gets the _mouse_ killed. ( _I’m in the business of knowing other people’s business.)_

 

“Reaper” had never asked about anything like this. Widowmaker decides that his company is perhaps, comparatively more tolerable.

 

“It was dark.” She replies tonelessly. “I would not have noticed, if not for the lamplight, some of his blood on my hands,” Honest disinterest. Sombra seems disappointed.

 

“You didn’t _feel_ anything?” She presses, arching a sculpted eyebrow. “No heartbreak? No anguish? Nothing like those cheesy holovids?”

 

Widowmakers replies with an almost imperceptible shrug, and looks down at her unfurling fingers.

 

“His blood was red. Until it wasn’t.”

 

-

 

She is alive when her feet touch the rooftop, can feel her veins thrumming with euphoric energy. She smiles.

 

The girl skids to a stop in front of her, clutching at her chest in confusion.

 

“Wha-”

 

Even this imbecile knows that she never misses her mark. The sniper hefts her rifle, rests it casually on her shoulder.

 

“Looks like the party is over.” Her voice is almost a purr, all predatory pride, as she tilts her head towards the street below. The foolish girl takes her time, eyes narrowed in confusion as she searches Widowmaker’s face, until suddenly, it hits her; she swings around and rushes to the edge of the roof.

 

“No no no no,” the words are almost musical, gradually growing in volume, “no, no, no, no!”

 

Fast as thought, her eyes are back on Widowmaker’s, ablaze with fierce anger, and the next moment, they are tumbling over the tiles, and then she is pinning her to the floor.

 

“Why?!” she cries out. _Stereotypical,_ Widowmaker thinks, a scornful laugh building in her throat, _can’t you even try for a little originality_? Even in the darkness, she can see the glistening tears. “Why would you do this?!” Her voice is raw and raised in anguish.

 

And then, she seizes the sniper by the collar, and somewhere in the movement, skin brushes against skin. And suddenly, she cannot look away from those eyes.

 

Lena Oxton’s eyes, brimming with some unholy mixture of wonderment and panic. _Brown._ And now she remembers. Warm brown, warm as the fireside, as the voices of friends speaking from another room. As deeply rich as a small victory; catching something as it was falling, winning a card game. Her lips, parted in shock, are a gentle rosey colour, soft as silk, or snowfall, or sheets on a sleepy Sunday morning. The night sky a stage for them both, decadent in its many blue hues.

 

A whiteness almost blinding in its intensity floods her vision, and both of them are forced to shield their eyes, as the rumbling of the rotors catches up with them. Widowmaker sees her chance and takes it.

 

“Adieu cherie.”

 

She pushes off the roof and the girl falls with her. The golden city lights swirl around them and it’s almost like dancing- _again? Did I dance?_ She thinks, in unison with the girl’s pained shout as she is slammed against the wall, her chronal accelerator sparking like a dying star. A graceful movement, and with the aid of her grappling hook she is on her way back up again; she doesn’t hear the Overwatch agent crashing to the roof tiles below her.

 

-

 

It isn’t until she’s returned to base, waved away the curt and clipped congratulations, barricaded herself in her quarters, that she is able to look into a mirror. The change is still faintly surprising, if not completely unexpected. She lifts her hand to her face, her gaze flitting between herself and her mirror image, and then her focus is on her own eyes. _Dead things,_ she thinks. They might as well belong to an omnic.

 

But the lenses on her visor are- and it takes her a moment to find the word- red. And there’s a memory, just grazing the tips of her fingers, waiting just in the corner of her vision, and where she would usually let go, turn away, she waits, lets the scarlet soak under her skin.

 

A robin on the sill. With the window open, it’s close enough to touch, but it’s perched and regarding her- no, _them,_ quite calmly, tilting its head from side to side, blinking with a blank kind of curiosity. The splash of red on its breast is stark against the backdrop of snow, and they’re crowded too close together at the kitchen sink, and their breaths are beginning to mist, but they remain still for fear of startling it. She’s not cold, anyway, pressed so close to him, and she steals a glance at his expression. Falls a little more in love with him for the softness, the quiet fascination on his face. Before she looks away, there’s a flutter of wings and in a blur, it’s gone.

 

“You startled it.” She whispers, even though he did nothing of the sort.

 

“Did not.” He smiles back, and reaches across her to pull the window shut. Gently, she takes hold of his wrist to stop him.

 

“Leave it open,” she tells him. “I’m enjoying the air.” And she is, the sharpness of it, the mingling of the clear, wintry scent with that of the dish soap. She leans into him further, and feels his heartbeat against her back.

 

His pulse fluttering, robin’s wings beneath her fingers. Stuttering. Dying. The red seeping away to black on her hands.

 

There’s a throbbing in her fist that isn’t as close to pain as she would like. A spiderweb crack has appeared in the surface of the mirror where her knuckles meet it. The room behind her is a blur of colours through the tears- colours, each more sickening than the last, and the desire to purge it all, rip and tear and shred and rend rises in her throat, but she cannot move. She is as a paralysed insect, waiting as the spider bears down upon her.

 

His gaze on her. Familiar and then forgotten and now familiar all over again, shot through with gold in the sunlight. And now hers too- the eyes of a stranger, glossy in the darkness, her lashes casting stark shadows on her cheeks. Brown eyes again. _Ironic,_ she observes. But she doesn’t believe in fate.

 

Amélie regards coldly the welling of tears, the lifeless yellow eyes in the broken mirror. Soulless. Or so she had hoped.


End file.
